A Journey To Forever
by Fic Fairy
Summary: The Beauchamp girls are off on holiday trying to repair their fragile relationship, but the past is coming back to haunt Connie, in more ways than one.


A Journey To Forever

Tuesday 13:30 Eurostar from London – Paris

Just outside Ashford, Kent - 13:55 GMT

"Are we nearly there yet?"

The words pain me because they're there to spite me. We are 25 minutes into a 17 and a half hour journey. Clearly, we are not nearly there yet and my belligerent pre-teen daughter knows this only too well. I fear the next 17 hours and 5 minutes of my life are going to be awkwardly and irritatingly punctuated by such questions, whines and moans. The thought makes the idea of jumping from the train onto the tracks below quite attractive, as death may well be a lot more fun than spending time with my daughter.

And there is a very special kind of irony in that, given the fact that this whole trip has been planned in order for me to do just that. I see Grace nowhere near frequently enough, so in planning our holiday I wanted to maximise the amount of time we spend together. I didn't want a short haul flight to the Med where I could stick her in a kids club and while away hours drinking at the bar. I wanted us to talk, to rebuild our relationship, to rediscover the mother-daughter bond that we have been missing for so long.

So, originally, I booked a trip to Disneyland Paris, thinking I was making the dream of every little Princess come true. I imagined sharing the thrill of the rides together, taking selfies with Olaf from Frozen, and generally setting myself up as the Mother of the Year that we both know I'm not.

Sadly, it was not to be, as I discovered from a sullen pout on Skype that I recognised as being a precise mirror image of my own. Disney apparently is 'not cool' and having been dragged to both the Florida and Los Angeles parks with her younger siblings earlier in the summer, a trip to the Parisian version would not only be a 'huge downgrade' but also Grace's idea of absolute torture.

I had to admit that did leave me rather stumped, until a whole new alternative was offered up by Grace herself.

"Can't we do Italy?"

I was instantly smitten with the idea, having experienced it in the past and really rather fallen in love with it. All the same though, it was a curious suggestion on Grace's part, but, as I was to discover, there was a level of reasoning behind it.

"My friend AmyBeth says Italian men are HOT."

Yes. That was my 10 year old daughter's reasoning. Italian MEN are hot. Not Italian boys, which I could have coped with at a push, but Italian men. It was a sign – along with her painted nails, bikini top and distinctly teenage attitude - that life in America was maturing my daughter far too quickly.

But, as I said, I liked Italy and so, once I'd finished wiping spat out Pinot Grigio from my iPad screen I acquiesced and said we could go. That said though, I still wasn't going down the resort route; I still wanted to spend proper quality time with my daughter, perhaps even more so on discovering that she was 10 going on 25. And so, I formulated a plan. This plan. The plan had prompted her to ask the dreaded question.

I smile at her, although I feel less like smiling and more like smacking her, and shake my head, "No darling, we've got hours to go yet."

She rolls her eyes, once again reminding me of someone, and huffed a little before fixing me in a stony glare,

"You do know they've invented these things called planes right? They get places real fast."

I take a deep breath and inwardly count to 10, then once again, smile at her sweetly,

"Yes darling," I say through gritted teeth, "I know there are planes, but I thought it would be nice to spend some time together, have a little adventure."

She smiles back at me thinly, "I'd rather have had more time in Italy. Are you broke? Is that what all this is about?"

I count to twenty this time, cursing Tess and Charlie and Dylan and every other know it all who tried to convince me that doing the trip 'my way' was a bad idea. If I had a euro for everyone who expressed the opinion that it was a lovely thing to want to share with my daughter but that it might be wise to wait until she was a little bit older, not only would our spending money for the week have been covered but a lot more besides.

Temper under control, I sip my glass of Vintage Lanson and then look at Grace again, trying to sound amused rather than cross, "Sweetheart, I'm the Clinical Lead of one of the busiest Emergency Departments in the county; I have a long string of letters after my name," I don't mention the copious amounts of alimony paid to me by my ex-husband but I could have done – Michael provides very well for a child that isn't even his, "I am not broke. We're travelling this way because I want to share a little of myself with you." I pause as I notice she's stuffed her earphone buds into her ears and is evidently ignoring me, but then gathering myself plough on regardless, reaching into my handbag and pulling out a battered blue journal which I place in front of her, on top of her iPad, covering up The Gilmour Girls. She scowls, but I scowl back twice as hard and clearly from this she gets the message. The earphones are removed and she picks up the book,

"What's this?"

There is the smallest, slightest glimmer of interest which I take real heart in, and smile at her encouragingly,

"Why don't you have a look?"

xxx

I pick up the book and grudgingly open it. I'd much rather be watching TV on my iPad or, you know, scratching out my own eyes. When I'd told her I wanted to go to Italy this wasn't quite what I had in mind. I thought I'd have been in the pool by now. As it is we're barely even out of London. AmyBeth is gonna be so unimpressed.

The book is full of my Mum's handwriting, and she's a doctor so I bet you can guess what that looks like. Unreadable for a start. I nearly close it again but get the idea that that would be considered me being 'cheeky' so I plough on, skimming the first page before turning to the second.

Woah!

Page 2 is interesting. Page 2 has one of those old fashioned photos, those ones that look like Instagram pics, of Mum looking like an older version of me, on a boat, cuddling this really hot boy.

Like Harry Styles hot. In fact, it could BE Harry Styles.

I look up at Mum, "Who in shits name is that?"

The 'shits name' doesn't go down terribly well, but I can see I'm instantly being forgiven because I'm showing an interest. She grins, looking down at the photo fondly, "That, you foul mouthed little urchin, is Adam. Adam was," she pauses, and blushes a little – leaving me making a mental note that I need to demand far more detail than whatever she's about to tell me, "my boyfriend. In Medical School."

Somehow, I can't imagine her having a boyfriend, which sounds ridiculous given that she clearly must have had one or two at some point, but she hasn't since I came along and even before then I don't think my Dad fell into that territory. I suppose it's because she's so interested in her work, I can't imagine her ever having had time to be all loved up and Romeo and Juliet like.

Did I mention? I LOVE Romeo and Juliet. AmyBeth and I have seen the film 137 times. Leonardo Di Caprio is SO hot for an older guy.

But yeah, back to Mum and Adam the boat boy. I look at the picture again then back up at Mum who is still blushing. "Did you love him?" I wait for her to tell me I'm too young to know about love and stuff but instead she nods slowly,

"I adored him, Grace."

I find that confusing. On one hand she's telling me she loved a man who looked like Harry Styles, but at the same time I know all too well that she didn't marry him, instead hooking up with the -quote Dad - "posh twat" who did loads of bad things, went to prison and left Mum completely unable to function in normal relationships, including her one with me.

I can't ask her about it though, I mean, I'm not even meant to know any of that, she's never mentioned it, and to be honest I only know because Dad and Gran used to argue about it before I went to live with Dad. Gran used to say it was no excuse for her being a lousy mother, but Dad always used to defend her and say it wasn't her fault.

I'm not so sure about that.

Still, since I can't ask her why she didn't marry Adam I turn my attention to the fact they are – as previously mentioned – on a boat. "Where are you going?"

Mum smiles, "That's during the ferry journey from England to France. We were on our way to Italy."

Suddenly it all makes sense, and I narrow my eyes slightly, as I put the pieces together, "Right, I see. So you got the ferry cos there was no train under the sea in those days."

She nods. I'm clever.

"And, when you got to France, you got the train to Italy with him?"

She nods a second time, and I can't help but laugh, "You're on a memory lane trip! You're –" I try and remember a phrase I heard my stepmom Kadie use to Dad when he went out and bought a motorbike, because I suspect that was pretty much the same as this, "you're –" I remember it, "reliving your misspent youth. And you're taking me along for the ride."

A third nod and she looks a bit guilty about it, but to be honest, she doesn't need to.

I think it's like the craziest most romantic thing I've EVER heard.

"This is going to be SO much fun." I say with a grin, "Right, questions." My grin widens so it's a little more cheeky, "Was he a good kisser or what?"


End file.
